I am nine years old, and I’m inside the bottom kitchen cabinet between the oven and the sink. It smells weird in here.
The crack at the edge of the cabinet door brings in just enough light to notice the moldy, wet corner under the sink pipes. I catch something moving to my right, and I count three small roaches hurrying into the gap around the drainpipe. My knees are shoved up under my chin, and my arms are wrapped around my knees to hold them still so I don’t accidentally push the cabinet door back open.
Mama and Dad are killing each other. At least that’s what it sounds like.
Mama started it this time. She was already drunk when Dad came home from work late, and the dinner she had made him was cold and stale. Mama said something about a red lipstick stain on his shirt collar, and things blew up. I guess they both forgot I was sitting at the dinner table. Dad came rushing toward Mama and pushed her backward over the table, food and dishes flying everywhere. I couldn’t get around them to run up to my room, so I slid down from my chair and climbed in here to wait it out.
I can’t help crying. All of the yelling and the crashing makes me jump, and I press my hands over my ears. It doesn’t help much. The noise of them hurting each other starts to make my tummy hurt. I might throw up. I hear the zipping sound of Dad’s belt being yanked from his pants, and Mama yelps as the belt hits her with a crack. I get all goose bumply as I remember how the belt stings, and I cry harder as snot runs down my face onto my knee.
When I grow up, I will never, ever be like them!
“You’re fine, Danny,” says an unkind male voice. I lift my hands from over my ears, but I only hear the fighting. I cover my ears again and squeeze my eyes shut, then I hear the voice again. “They’ve done this before and it always stops eventually. Quit being such a baby.”
Who could be saying that?
“I’m a friend,” says the voice. He sure doesn’t sound friendly. Wait, he heard the words I’m thinking in my mind! “Yes, Danny,” he replies, still annoyed. “I can hear the words in your mind. I’m in here with you.” I think if I had an older brother and he was mad at me, this voice is what he would sound like. Only I don’t have an older brother, and I’m hearing this in my head while my parents tear up the house.
“You can call me The Bossman,” the voice says. “If you listen to me, you’ll be fine. If you don’t, then you’ll just be this crying little baby hiding in the cabinet.”
Sweat starts to run down my back. I sniff hard and wipe my wet nose and eyes on my shirt sleeve. “Why are you here?” I ask aloud quietly.
The Bossman shushes me. “You don’t have to talk out loud to answer me!” He seems mad. “I already told you I can hear your thoughts. And I’m helping you because, duh, obviously you need help right now, and no one else is here. Garrison isn’t here. I don’t know where Kendra went.”
He knows about the Others!
“Yes,” the Bossman says with a weary sigh. He must not like me very much. “Garrison comes around when you’re in real danger, and Kendra writes down all of the bad stuff that you do. But like I said, you’re fine. Your parents will get tired soon. They’ll stop fighting, and then you can go to bed.”
Someone falls hard against my cabinet door and cries out in pain. I jump again. Whoever it was gets right back up. I hear a sharp crash and a crackling, buzzing sound. My shoulders drop as I guess that our only television is now in pieces. Great.
“It’s fine, Danny. Your dad will steal another one like he always does. Stop worrying about it like a little baby.”
I’m NOT a baby! Stop calling me that. Angry tears start up again.
“Then stop acting like one,” he snaps.
Then what am I supposed to do in here? It’s gross.
“Think about someplace fun that you like to go, and let the movie screen in your mind play like you’re actually there.” The Bossman’s attitude toward me seems nicer now.
I think about the King’s Island park in Cincinnati. Uncle Mickey takes me there at least twice a year. My favorite ride is the Scooby Doo coaster. Uncle Mickey let me ride it ten times in a row last year.
The movie screen of my mind plays the roller coaster ride, and I begin to relax. I love being in the very front car, so I think about riding on a sunny summer day. I begin to hear the sound of the track chain as it slowly pulls the string of cars up the wooden hill, clicking and shaking as it climbs. I can even smell the popcorn and cotton candy and hot black pavement all mixed together, and I see myself smiling as the red and yellow ride crests the top of the first hill. My stomach drops a little as I remember what it feels like to be flying down the first bumpy hill, the air rushing past and messing up my hair as I laugh. Around the first curve and down a smaller hill, my body moves with the hills and dips as the coaster flies up and down and up again. Another curve, another small hill, another curve, and we race to the end where the car jerks to a stop. What a ride!
“Wanna ride again?” asks the Bossman. I don’t have to answer as the ride resumes in my mind. This time, the tinkly sound of music is playing through the park speakers, and I can almost feel the metal bar across my lap and the hard seat under me bouncing as I ride. Then I think about riding again on a warm, dark summer night with all of the lights flashing. From the very top of the first hill, I look around at the rest of the park, all lit up like a Christmas carnival. My mouth waters a little at the smell of hot dogs and funnel cakes, and I am so happy. Then I think about some of the other rides in the park, and I imagine riding The Flying Dutchman, the Spinning Keggers, Halley’s Comet, and The Rotor. But I go back to the Scooby-Doo coaster between each of those.
I don’t know how long I spend riding the rides at King’s Island. By the time I decide I’ve had enough riding, I realize I am in the dark, and the house is totally quiet.
“Told ya,” whispers the Bossman.
I slide out of the cabinet onto the kitchen floor. I’ve been under there so long, my bottom is asleep, and my back and legs hurt. Light from a streetlamp shines through the kitchen window, and I see holes and broken things everywhere. I start to walk across the kitchen floor, and something sharp stabs the bottom of my bare foot. Sucking in my breath at the pain, I pick up my left foot and pull the sharp thing out and toss it away. I can’t walk through here barefooted. I step up onto the nearest dining room chair, and I hop and climb from chair to table and to another chair until I’m close enough to the stairs to jump.
Tip-toeing up the far right side of the staircase where the squeaks in the floor are the softest, I make it upstairs and quietly open and close my bedroom door.
I’m so tired I can barely stand up, but I’m not scared anymore. Without changing my dirty clothes, I crawl into bed. My old, green lovey blanket is still folded up under my pillow where I left it, and I pull it close to me in the dark.
“See, Danny,” the Bossman says quietly. “You’re just fine.”
I’m just fine. Will you be here tomorrow?
“If you want me to,” he answers. He sounds even nicer now. “I can be here whenever you think things are going bad, and I’ll remind you to ride the roller coasters in your mind until things blow over, and you’ll be fine.”
Yes. I’ll be fine.